i will collect you
by cithrin
Summary: It was Hermione's dream to enter the prestigious Hogwarts Dance Academy. But she had no idea that her ruthless mentor would push her over the edge. Tomione.
1. Chapter 1

_Like a butterfly,_  
 _A wild butterfly,_  
 _I will collect you_  
 _And capture you._

1.

Hermione bent forward and massaged her weary feet. The toes were blood-stained, as usual.

She had spent all night practicing, which most of the girls had told her was a bad idea.

"You're going to nod off during the exam," Ginny had warned her kindly.

But she couldn't have rested if she tried. Her anxiety had reached an unbearable pitch. She could hardly breathe. She was waiting for it to be over.

The other girls were nervous too, but they seemed to have things under control. Most of them were so self-possessed when they danced. Their bodies moved freely, undisturbed by any obstacle, physical or otherwise. Hermione was the opposite in every way. She was always chasing an impossible ideal, bending her body out of shape, struggling to attain a perfection that left her battered and bruised. She lacked the joy and ease of movement. She was afraid of herself when she danced.

And she was more afraid that the examiners would see it too.

But it had always been her dream to enter the prestigious Hogwarts Dance Academy. She had studied the brochures ever since she'd learned how to read. She had always known this is what she wanted to do. It was only that she had such a contradictory relationship with her own passion.

The heavy oak doors were thrown open and Hermione saw Ginny run out into the corridor with her pointe shoes in her arms. She was glowing.

"I got the _Fairies_ dance from _Cinderella_! It was brilliant, because that's the one I'd rehearsed the most!"

Hermione congratulated her in earnest. "Good job! You surely got in!"

"I hope so! I nearly gutted myself when one of the judges threw me this haughty look like I was doing everything wrong. But he was the only one turning up his nose. Professor McGonagall seemed very pleased. Watch out for him anyway. He's devilishly handsome, but his eyes can kill."

Hermione made a mental note not to look at the judges at all.

 _Oh, God, let it be over soon._

And then it was her turn. She felt her stomach drop when she heard her name being called out.

Hermione entered the examination room as if she were about to be sent to the gallows.

She kept her eyes firmly on the half-moon windows above the judges' heads. The sky was overcast with clouds and the atmosphere felt repressive. She stated her name clearly and mentioned her previous dancing school. Then, she waited in first position for the music to start.

When she heard the first notes of Act 4 of _La Bayadere_ she was terribly relieved. It was not an easy dance by any stretch of the imagination, but she didn't have to focus on the emotions of the scene. She began confidently enough, going through each fouetté with as much precision as possible and making sure to keep steady.

She was almost halfway through the dance, when a sharp voice cut through the music like ice.

"Stop. Switch to Saint-Saëns, _Bacchanale_."

The music was immediately cut and she was left standing in the middle of the floor like a fool, with her arms raised over her head.

Hermione turned her face towards the source of the interruption. The man was arresting. He was younger than she had expected, with a fierce and cold demeanour that could make even the bravest tremble. His fingers tapped impatiently on the desk top.

"Mr. Riddle, is it necessary to change her routine?" the older woman she recognized as Professor McGonagall queried from the other end of the table.

"Yes," he answered starkly. "Now. _Bacchanale_ , if you will."

His decisions appeared to be law, since the next thing she knew, Saint- Saëns had started playing and she had to get into position.

Hermione felt like her feet were made of lead. This piece of the _Bacchanale_ was meant to be a _pas de deux_ between Samson and Delilah, but she did not have a partner. She was supposed to pretend she did. And she was supposed to entice him and dance around him in a suggestive manner. All things which she hadn't practiced a great deal, because this piece demanded what she dreaded most, and that was raw emotion.

She tried to smile to hide her obvious discomfort, but each time she leapt forward and pretended she was addressing a lover, something pulled her back. It was her own sense of inadequacy and her inability to lose herself in a dance that was meant to reveal too much of the dancer. The inviting Oriental strings were supposed to lead Samson and Delilah into a trance, but all she could do was go through the motions and pretend she was anywhere else. Detachment was safer, detachment did not allow for mistakes.

She could feel his capricious gaze on her body, watching her every move, waiting for her to fall a step short. Hermione did not want to give him the satisfaction. She was going to finish the dance, even if it made her stomach turn.

"Stop," he called out again, just as she was performing a grand jeté, but this time, Hermione continued dancing, even when the music was cut. The floor squeaked against her feet as she turned in silence, chasing the final movements of the piece.

When it was over, she came to a standstill, panting heavily.

She saw it on their faces. The judges were not impressed with her little show of defiance. Even Professor McGonagall looked down awkwardly.

"When I say stop, you _stop_ ," the young man spoke calmly, but his every word felt like a dagger.

"Do you understand?"

Hermione nodded her head apprehensively. "I understand –"

" _Quiet_. You call that dancing? You were meant to seduce Samson, not run away from him," he remarked with alacrity.

"I apologize, Sir. I am doing my best," Hermione mumbled, although she felt tears gathering at the corner of her eyes, blurring her vision.

 _I will not cry. I will_ _ **not**_ _cry._ She took a deep breath to master her emotions.

He sneered. "If this is you doing your best, then I'm afraid we've seen enough. Good day."

And with that, her dream of attending Hogwarts had shattered into a million pieces. Hermione couldn't believe it.

* * *

"But that's so unfair!" Ginny protested as they sat together in the changing rooms. "No First-Year was ever given _pas de deux_ at the entrance exam! That's too hard and unpredictable! He made you perform as if you were already a professional! What a bastard!"

"I gathered as much," Hermione muttered, trying to take off the last bits of makeup from her face. "I was lucky I'd gone over that piece out of pedantry. I wanted to cover everything."

"Of course you did," Ginny sighed, "and I'm so sorry."

Hermione shrugged. "It wasn't meant to be, I suppose. But at least _you_ will be part of the program and you can tell me all about it."

"I promise, if I get in, I'll let you in on every excruciating moment."

"Hey, they're calling out the list," Parvati shouted from the hallway.

"Come on," Ginny beckoned.

"No, there's no point in hearing I failed. I already know, thanks very much."

"Then come for me, please?" Ginny nudged playfully.

Hermione couldn't say no to that. They both arrived in front of the exam doors where Professor McGonagall was talking to the candidates.

"As you know, we only have room for five new bright talents this year, each assigned to an individual mentor. My colleagues have all chosen their favoured students. When I call out your name, you will step forward."

Hermione was grateful that at least the hateful man who had sabotaged her routine was not there to gloat. He would have probably savoured her dismay.

"Abbot, Hannah. Professor Sprout will be your personal mentor. Congratulations."

"Granger, Hermione –"

Her heart leapt out of her chest. She must have heard wrong. Ginny pushed her forward. " _Go_!"

Hermione walked up to Professor McGonagall in a daze. She wasn't sure if there was enough air in her lungs to sustain her.

"Professor Riddle will be your personal mentor. Congratulations."

And the other shoe dropped. Hermione recognized the name. She opened her mouth to protest, but only air came out. _He_ was going to be her mentor. The man who had almost reduced her to tears. But – _why_? Why had he chosen her when he had been so scathing of her performance? Was this another trick? Some kind of sick punishment?

Three more girls were selected after that, but Hermione only listened with half an ear.

"Parkinson, Pansy, Professor Slughorn will be your personal mentor. Congratulations."

"Patil, Parvati, Professor Sinistra will be your personal mentor. Congratulations."

"Weasley, Ginevra. I shall be your personal mentor. Congratulations."

"I got McGonagall! How great is that?" Ginny bragged happily, clasping Hermione in a tight embrace.

Hermione returned the hug, feeling pleased on behalf of her friend, but disconcerted about her own success. She had made it. She had got into Hogwarts Dance Academy. So then, why wasn't she feeling euphoric? Why wasn't she celebrating? This was her dream, after all.

"Tomorrow's the boys' turn. Should we go peek at their exam? My brother, Percy, is trying out for the third time! He'll be so jealous when he finds out I did it on my first try."

"I'm sure he will be seething," Hermione replied in good humour. She just needed to cheer up, that was it. Riddle had tested her, and she supposed she had passed. There was nothing wrong with this picture. She was at Hogwarts. That's all that mattered.

* * *

Late that night, sitting up in the dormitory with the other girls, she couldn't get a wink of sleep even though she was thoroughly exhausted. She pulled out one of her history books and searched for the name of Riddle. She hadn't heard of him before, which was a surprise, since she had read most of these books religiously.

And then she realized why. He wasn't known as Riddle in the ballet world. His famous stage name was _Voldemort_.

"Vol de mort," she whispered in awe. _Flight of death_. She had encountered the phrase before, but she hadn't dwelled on it. It seemed she should have.

He was a young _god_.

He had been the youngest ballet champion in the country _and_ the youngest dancer to perform with the Russian Ballet. A prodigious talent, he had been renamed Voldemort due to his dancing technique, which was _impossible_ to follow or replicate. He moved so fast and in such a fluid way, it really did look like he was flying.

Hermione resolved to go down to the projection room and watch some of his old footage. She remembered being very little and seeing him on television. She couldn't _believe_ he was her teacher now. Not only that, but her personal mentor.

What had he seen in her? Or...what had he _not_ seen?

She was terrified and excited to find out.

* * *

 _Sooo, I hope you liked the beginning. I was inspired to write this after watching the TV show, Flesh and Bone, which I highly recommend. This will be very mature and dark later on. Let's see how it goes? (yay or nay?)_


	2. Chapter 2

2.

When everyone received their schedule for the coming semester, Hermione noticed there was something markedly different about hers.

She and the rest of the girls had ballet classes all through Monday and Wednesday, while Thursday was reserved for working with their personal mentor. The weekend was supposed to be their leisure time, when they rested their overworked bodies, soaked them in hot water and applied ice to whatever muscle had been strained. In reality, they would probably spend Friday morning practicing in one of the empty classrooms. Except, Hermione's Friday had already been booked...by Professor Riddle. Unlike all the other mentors, he seemed to require _two_ days of rehearsal instead of one.

Ginny and Hannah commiserated with her in their common room.

"It's overkill, is what it is. What does he need a second class for? As if we don't already work ourselves to the bone!"

"Perhaps he's the one who is feeling insecure and needs a second meeting to impress me," Hermione joked lightly. The girls laughed. She mustered a smile, although she knew she was pretending. Deep down, she felt extremely uncertain about this addition to her schedule.

She got the feeling that the man wanted to teach her a lesson, and had singled her out to make an example of her. Then again, he was _Voldemort_ , the young god of ballet. It couldn't hurt to listen. It was just that, she had never met a teacher who was so thoroughly displeased with her.

Hermione had been dancing since the tender age of four, and something she had realized a long time ago was that she was a people pleaser. Or rather, a teacher pleaser. In her short lifespan, she had not _once_ made a teacher unhappy. In fact, this is what she excelled at. Technique and etiquette. She was always perfect at the barre, anticipating the way in which the teacher would tell her to lift her shoulders or stick out her fingers; she was always patient during centre exercises where a teacher might make her repeat an adagio combination ad infinitum. And she always performed the big jumps on the diagonal with a smile on her face, even if she was bored or tired. Class for her was where she shone as a ballerina. Class tested one's stamina and power of concentration. Class was for perfectionists.

The only hang-up in this almost too-good-to-be-true story was the actual dancing. A ballerina was not a ballerina unless she let go of the barre. When Hermione had to rehearse a piece, in a corps or as a soloist, when her movements had to convey a _story_ or even a _feeling_ , she performed well and correctly, but always with a sense of restraint. There was so much of dancing that was objective, and yet there was also a great unknown that was subjective and ambiguous and totally unpredictable. It was this artistic shadow which always gave her trouble, because technique alone could never secure it. And since ballet portended to be an _art_ , this shadow mattered a great deal.

Hermione liked the _abstract_ idea of dancing, not its concrete, sweat-and-blood reality. She did not like the shadow. She preferred the light.

Tom Riddle seemed to belong to a different school of thought, judging from his _Bacchanale_ commentary.

But she would prove to him that she was worthy of Hogwarts, even though she might have different ideas about dancing.

* * *

"And _dégagés_! _Port de bras_ and slowly, _soutenu_ ,...Now, in, in, and out, _plié_ and _rondes de jambe en l'air_!"

Hermione followed Professor Sinistra's mixture of French and English instructions with total focus. They were getting their bodies in shape at the barre. She enjoyed how perfectly straight and rigid her leg could be one second and then malleable and soft during a pique turn. She never tired of seeing her body's potential in abstract form.

She hadn't even noticed someone else had entered the classroom. It was Parvati who coughed behind her and drew her attention, but she could hardly turn her head to see as she was straining every muscle for a perfect _ronde de jambe en l'air_. The newcomer walked among them as Professor Sinistra shouted further instructions.

She finally saw him in the mirror's reflection. Professor Riddle. He was dressed in a silk shirt and loose trousers. He looked as if he had returned from a fashionable soiree, and yet he also gave one an air of urban casualty. Meanwhile, her newly purchased leotard and skirt looked ratty by comparison. She suddenly felt self-conscious about her appearance, a thing she normally ignored. Her face looked wan in the mirror. She wished there was more colour in her cheeks.

He stopped a few feet behind her, watching her shoulder line intently. Hermione felt herself tense. Was it not good? The shoulders should always be down during this exercise. Should she bring them up? _No, no, follow the instructions. He's not your professor here._

Suddenly, she felt a cold tap between her shoulder blades. He had taken out a long metal stick and was lightly poking her, as if to test her balance.

Hermione kept perfectly straight.

He hit her shoulder blades several times without result. Dissatisfied with her reaction, he jabbed the end of the stick into the side of her neck.

Hermione visibly winced, making her leg falter. She quickly regained position.

 _What do you want me to_ _ **do**_ _?_

But he did not say a single word. He only kept pressing the cool tip into her flesh, making her shiver and flinch. He was expecting something...she just did not know _what_. She tried to relax and let the metal stick guide her. But it still hurt. Whichever way she moved, he was always hurting her.

Hermione struggled through her _ronde_ anyway, because finishing the exercise was what really mattered. She tried to act as if the pain was not there, as if she could push it to the back of her mind. She almost succeeded for a while, until he dragged the stick down to her waist and jabbed it cruelly in the small of her back. She didn't know what she might have done next if Professor Sinistra hadn't spoken up.

"Professor Riddle? While it is an honour to have you watch us, I'm afraid you are disrupting my class. As you can see, my girls need no distraction." She had spoken in a honeyed but crisp tone that allowed for no further argument.

He stepped away from her. Hermione could see him smile in the mirror's reflection. It was fractured.

"Carry on, please. I got what I came for," he spoke in a soft voice and walked away without so much as a glance back. She wondered what he had possibly gotten out of tormenting her.

 _Oh._ _ **That**_ _._

* * *

Thursday morning came too soon and Hermione was a bundle of nerves. Her unease had nothing to do with normal anxiety. She was not afraid of hard work, she was afraid of _dubious_ work. What would he make her do? If Professor Sinistra's class had been any indication, she was going to be _very_ uncomfortable.

He had selected a room on the lower levels of the school, which some students had dubbed "the dungeons" because they were below ground and usually darker and colder than their normal classrooms. Their advantage was an aural insulation and a better sound system. You could scream and cry and lose yourself in the music, if you wanted to. Some dancers did. _She_ didn't.

She did not relish the thought of descending down those stairs to meet him. Ginny had to physically push her to do it.

"Don't be silly! He can't kill you, can he?"

"He might try."

"Then he'll have _me_ to deal with."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but smiled. "And what are you going to do? Hit him with your pointes?"

"Oh, no, they're too expensive. But I'll throw the rosin box at him."

She shouldn't have worried so much. For the better part of an hour, Riddle did not even _look_ at her.

She came into the room with her stomach in a tight coil and found him leafing distractedly through a book. He pressed start on the compact CD-player on the table next to him and told her to begin stretching and warming up. After which, he told her to rehearse the 3rd furiant movement in Dvorak's _Symphony No. 6._

And then she could leave.

 _Leave?_ _Just like that?_ Hermione couldn't believe it. _This_ is what he had requested two days for?

She did not argue, however, as the relaxed programme suited her very well. She watched him surreptitiously as she did her routine warm-ups. He did not once look up from his book. He sat with his head propped in his hand, completely absorbed by whatever he was reading. He was also dressed down today in a grey V-necked T-shirt and comfortable slacks. He still looked glacial and forbidding, but as long as he did not focus his intimidating stare on her, she could breathe easily.

She actually enjoyed Dvorak – well, anything by him that was not a romantic waltz – and she pulled through it quite admirably; at least she _thought_ she did. When the last movements were over and the track ended, she stood in the middle of the room and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She had barely broken a light sweat. She figured that she could schedule a hardcore practice session later that afternoon and not feel any worse for wear.

"Are you finished then?" he asked lightly, finally looking up from his book.

"Yes, Professor."

"And you feel you have danced the furiant as it was _meant_ to be danced?" His tone was innocent of criticism, but there was a mischievous glint in his eyes that made her waver.

"As it was meant to be danced, Sir?"

"Yes. As thousands of ballerinas have done it before you and a thousand more will."

"I – I don't know. The piece reflects an individual interpretation every time it is performed –"

"I asked you a simple question." His tone was no longer light. "But I will repeat myself. Do you feel you have done Dvorak and his symphony justice?"

"Well...no one can truly do justice to such a brilliant and lyrical –"

He raised his hand and cut her off. "I see. Well, then, you shall simply have to dance until you feel comfortable to say you've done it justice."

"Sir...?"

He had picked up his book and was walking to the door. "I will be checking in, now and then, to see how you are doing. I _will_ know if you left the room. I _will_ know if you stopped dancing. Now...carry on."

Hermione gulped, feeling utterly lost.

He cast her one last glance before he shut the door behind him. _Defy me if you dare_ , the glance seemed to say.

She stood there, alone and perplexed. He had not told her when she was meant to stop. He had not even told her – _anything_ really. She marched to the CD-player and pressed play and began again.

She looked into the mirror at her movements as she pirouetted and performed _grand battements_ with the same precision as the first time. There was no mistake in her technique, but if he objected to her "acting", she could improve that too. This symphony was usually staged as a village celebration where young men and women danced in the town square. Her dancing should reflect that. _Fine_. _Remove the stiffness. Pretend you're in a Hungarian village._ She tried to seem more celebratory as she rounded each move with a little throw of her head. Now she looked as if she was spinning uncontrollably. _No, slower...maybe gentler?_ But gentler did not work with furiant.

She kept staring at her reflection and turning and turning and turning...like a mouse in a trap.

Was this his purpose? To drive her insane with her own thoughts? She couldn't pretend this was any other practice. Something had been _wrong_ about her Dvorak and he wouldn't tell her what, and now she had to _guess_ by confronting herself in the mirror. It was a nightmare. And he probably knew it.

By the fifth time around, she was swimming in her own sweat, but still she twirled her feet in the air and jumped and made the little _embôités_ look like child's play. By the eighth time around, the _embôités_ looked...less like play and more like pain.

By the tenth time she felt her knee would give out. By the twelfth, she almost collapsed on the floor, but she pulled herself up quickly and let her movements be more wide and generous so she might rest in between pauses.

It was only on the fifteenth turn around the room that he deigned to look in and see her progress.

"A little tired, are we?"

Hermione could hardly hide it. She was panting heavily and she could not even form a reply, as all her energy was spent on standing up and moving. Her steps were languid, much too languid, but stubborn in their persistence. She went forward and forward and forward...

And she almost tripped and fell into him.

He had walked into her path, a solid wall of ice, blocking her.

He grabbed her arms and spun her around, so that her back hit his chest. It was only now that she noticed the music had changed.

"Dvorak's _Symphony No. 8_ , movement 3, waltz."

Hermione opened her mouth to issue a protest – she _hated_ waltzes, she wasn't even _ready_ – but one of his hands pinched the sensitive flesh under her armpit, settling below her breast. She could feel him against her sweat-soaked leotard. He was perfectly dry. She dropped her hand in his palm, her heart beating wildly in her chest. He was already guiding her in the four-step, which was even more taxing when performed en pointe.

His grip was not kind, but nor was it rough. It promised pain if she did not comply, but it also made a thrill run down her spine because he held her like a professional.

She complied.

For this particular dance, she was supposed to be "willowy", or at least this is what the textbooks informed her. The popular staging was that of a shy girl who was pretending to dance by herself because no one would ask her. When she finally found a partner, she was so relieved, she let herself float, almost as if she were boneless. The movements were supposed to be sedated.

On a regular day, she could not have done it because she found neither the story nor the girl compelling.

Yet, since she was so thoroughly exhausted, her body naturally slouched and leaned into his without hesitation. When he turned her around to face him, he only had to exert a little pressure on her middle for her to tilt her head back in a perfect rendition of a willow.

She was dancing in a way, but she felt it was only a series of chutes. She kept falling and being picked up by him. He moved effortlessly, like he was skating instead of dancing, and if she had been a little more alert, she might have admired his grace.

When it was time for the final movement, she was supposed to sway with him while keeping her back perfectly arched. She was so tired that she did not feel embarrassed by the position. Usually, she would have gone stiff and tense and focused on technique, but right now, she just wanted it to be _over_.

When the music stopped, she still felt his fingers on the small of her back, mean and hard and skilled. And then he let her go for good. She dropped inelegantly on the floor. She lay there like a sack of potatoes, entirely spent.

He looked down at her in triumph.

"There was nothing wrong with your furiant, by the way."

Hermione squinted at him, breathing in and out with great effort. _Of course._ The sole purpose of _Symphony No. 6_ had been to tire her enough for _Symphony No. 8_. He had known she would not be comfortable with the waltz. So, he had exhausted her to the point of not caring.

It was horrid and diabolical and entirely genius.

He bent forward. His jaw looked cut from hard diamond. She did not know if it was make-up or simply the hardness of his face.

"If I have to break every bone in your body and turn you into a shell of your former self in order to get you to dance, I will." There was a pregnant pause during which she forgot to breathe. "You may leave now."

Hermione struggled to gather her bearings. She didn't even know where she was anymore. She remembered now. The "dungeons". How fitting.

She felt angry and sad and confused. But most of all, she felt hollow, as if there was an important piece of knowledge which had slipped through her fingers.

"Professor...?"

"Yes?"

"What did you mean by what you said in Professor Sinistra's class?"

"You will have to spell it out."

"You said – you said you had got what you'd come for."

"Did I?" he echoed, giving her an amused look. "Oh, yes, I did say that when I was beating you with a stick."

Hermione's cheeks flushed deeply. "You weren't–"

"But I was. And if that dull woman had not been in the room, I would have beaten you more thoroughly. In fact, I am tempted to do it again very soon."

"But _why_?"

Her question seemed out of place. She should have told him he was insane and walked out of the room instead of asking _why_. Her nagging curiosity always trumped her sense of preservation.

Riddle's eyes almost flashed red for a moment. "Why? Because I discovered I was right."

"Right about what?" she asked in a small voice.

"You, Miss Granger," he said, picking up his jacket from the chair, "you enjoy pain. You perform better when you are hurt. Badly."

Hermione's mouth fell open. "I _absolutely_ do not enjoy pain."

He cocked his head to the side, considering her for a moment. "Nine o'clock sharp tomorrow. And do sew some fresh ribbons on those pointes. You seem to have torn them."

* * *

 _So, I'm extremely grateful for all your reviews! I hope you enjoyed this second chapter and that it wasn't too amateurish. I'm also reading a bit about ballet, so I am trying to apply that knowledge here. Please share your thoughts!_


	3. Chapter 3

3.

Hermione kept muttering the word under her breath. _Pain_. What did it even mean? As words went, this one contained multitudes. Pain could mean bare-faced suffering, or silent grieving. It could mean abject horror, or maybe just a physical twinge. Years of bad alternative music had rendered the word meaningless. When you were bombarded every day with lyrics about pain and heartbreak and being "broken", you sort of became indifferent to the notion.

Nowadays, _everyone_ was in pain. So she had never stopped to consider how _she_ felt about pain.

Hermione knew she was an incorrigible perfectionist and an obsessive thinker, but that hardly warranted Professor Riddle's description. For someone to _enjoy_ pain, they would have to willingly subject themselves to it. But _she_ didn't seek out pain. She was a hard-worker and she pushed herself a little too much sometimes, but dancing required total dedication. If that meant occasional bruises, well, so be it. Professional boxers got routinely injured, and no one thought _they_ were unstable.

She wasn't masochistic. He was wrong.

Still, she kept thinking about pain. She had been raised in a loving, if not traditional family; her mother and father were simple dentists. When they realized their daughter was gifted in ways they couldn't understand, they invested everything they had in her passion. No one could reproach their absolute devotion. She had never wanted for anything. And she had been supported all the way. They had been _delighted_ to have a dancer in the family.

She hadn't suffered any early traumas. She hadn't been bullied in school. Yes, she had always been a bit lonely and yes, she'd occasionally heard some mean comments from the other children. But this was a natural result of being immersed in the competitive and demanding world of dancing from a young age. If she came off as stand-offish it was because she had more important things to think about than school gossip. And she had friends _now_. She had made ballet friends. Those were the only friends that mattered, the only ones that understood what it was like.

No, she absolutely did not enjoy pain. She had a good family, she had friends. She was only a _little_ bit lonely now. But that was probably her fault.

He was totally wrong.

* * *

The next day, she woke up at five, had a quick and unfulfilling self-made breakfast (tea, almonds and one unripe banana) and reserved an empty classroom for practice. Her meeting with Professor Riddle was several hours away. She had time to work up a sweat. Her plan was simple; get exhausted before class. Riddle seemed to think she danced better when she was all burned out. _Fine_. She could do this twice a week for him and return to her normal rhythm on Monday.

She was already a little tired from sewing new ribbons on her pointes. Ginny and Hannah had agreed that they hadn't been that _torn_ , but she didn't want to give him reasons to be displeased with her.

Halfway through her "burn out" session, there was a knock on the door and a group of noisy boys burst into the room.

Hermione swiveled on the spot, confused.

"Ah, sorry, we were looking for Professor Sprout, thought she was in here." The boy who spoke seemed to be the leader of the pack and he had the most unruly head of jet-black hair she had ever seen. He was handsome, in an athletic way, and he reminded her of all the high-school boys who had sneered at her when she was sixteen. The boy to his right was no different. He had a very regal sort of pose which suited his frosty blond hair, but you could tell right away he was one of those ballet men who were a little bit ashamed that they _danced_ , so they tried to compensate by being as arrogant and high-strung as possible. A regular Baryshnikov, but without the charisma. Then there was a lanky, freckled redhead, whom Hermione instantly recognized as Ginny's older brother, Percy. He was more of a Boris Godunov, who thought himself a genius and suffered the word's lack of appreciation in silence. He didn't seem to recognize her, or didn't want to. There were two more boys behind them, one who was tall and black and whose amber eyes considered her dispassionately, and the other who was short and of a heavy and awkward built - not really someone you'd expect in this profession. But she knew that he could turn out to be a second Diaghilev. Ballet had a funny way of endowing greatness on the least likely.

She could already tell which of them would be soloists and which would be coryphées. Usually, the more haughty and self-absorbed, the better. Boys had it both easier and harder in ballet. If they were confident enough, they could get away with mistakes more often than girls. On the other hand, professors tended to work them harder because they believed they had superior stamina.

Hermione pulled back a few loose strands which had escaped her bun. She always had trouble keeping her big hair in check. "No, I think she usually teaches on the first floor."

"Really? There must be something wrong with our schedule…" the boy with the jet-black hair muttered, reaching into his duffel bag for the slip of paper.

"The schedule's not wrong," the blond boy spoke up coolly. "I checked it myself. We're just early. You're the one who's in the wrong class."

Hermione frowned. "Okay. If you say so."

"I do. Come on, let's warm up," the blond boy instructed Percy and the rest. He seemed to be the second in command.

They swept into the classroom without paying her much mind. Their leader smiled apologetically and ran a hand through his messy hair, as if to say "what can you do". Hermione was reminded of high-school all over again.

She huffed, but she picked up her things and stuffed them in her bag. On her way out, she thought she heard them muttering about her "homely" unitard.

Boys.

They were a cruel species.

* * *

She arrived to "the dungeons" at five minutes to nine. She was munching on a low-cal protein bar, but she was confident she was tired enough for Riddle. She had gone over the _Peasant Pas_ in _Giselle_ which was boisterous and up-beat enough to drain her quickly.

When she walked through the door, Riddle was already there. He wasn't reading this time around.

He was standing, in full ballet wear, in front of the mirrors, watching his own reflection. Hermione tried not to stare. Professors rarely donned the apparel. Most of them did not even dance when they taught. They usually instructed orally, or made hand gestures here and there. If the situation demanded it, they might perform a step or two.

But she hadn't seen Professor Slughorn in tights.

Of course, Riddle in tights was a different matter. She felt a flash of awe when he turned towards her because he looked exactly like he did in those live performances she had watched in the projection room. He seemed so slight and graceful, yet he filled up a room. How did he do that?

"Fresh from the shower?" he asked, tilting his head.

The question disarmed her. She touched her nape, where the roots of her hair were still damp. But how could he have seen _that_?

"No."

Riddle smiled a glacial smile. "I _do_ hope you haven't wasted your sweat."

"No, Sir. I am ready to dance."

"Dance? Oh, no. Today we are doing something much smaller. We are going to rehearse arabesques, _en ouvert_ and _tendue_."

Hermione blinked. "Arabesques."

"Yes. Sans barre."

She had only seconds to register his meaning. Arabesques were dance positions, in which one foot was extended behind the body, in a perfectly straight line. Arabesques without barre meant having to stand on one foot, without support, for extensive periods of time. It was the kind of exercise she usually liked, because it challenged one's focus and strength, but…

"Problem?" he asked lightly.

But she had tired herself out. For him. And arabesques, especially sustained ones, demanded energy. Any kind of posturing did.

"Will we be rehearsing the _penchés_ too?" she asked, trying to sound casual, but feeling her heart quicken at his slight pause.

"Of course."

 _Damn it._

Arabesques _penchés_ were the devil's work. Your body had to bend at a 90 degree-angle, with your leg perfectly parallel to the wall. It was the kind of thing that you wanted to last for only a few seconds in a dance routine.

She started warming up, more to save face about the fact that she'd _already_ warmed up. Hermione tried to think of the task as a challenge. Riddle liked games. She just had to obey the rules and not let him get in her head.

"Ready?" he asked with a smile that was laced with irony.

"Yes, Sir."

She took her time getting into the right position, twisting her shoulders, tilting her head back, rolling her chin, flexing her fingers. Much to her shock, Riddle followed suit. He positioned himself next to her.

When she lifted her leg up in the first arabesque of the session, he did the same.

"I told you. _We_ are going to rehearse arabesques," he repeated, upon noting her look of confusion.

Hermione turned her eyes to the mirrors. She watched his movements with secret fascination.

His legs looked _made_ for arabesque. He held himself like a strung-up arrow, ready to shoot forward.

His posture, in all its impeccable proficiency, made her more aware of her own deficiencies. She did not want to look _bad_ next to him. She gritted her teeth and remained still, with the leg pushed out rigidly behind her.

"You may pause whenever you choose," he told her absently, keeping his leg up in the air.

Hermione released a slow and angry breath. He was such a clever bastard. _Of course_ she couldn't pause whenever she wanted. As long as _he_ held up his leg, she had to do it too, or she'd look the fool.

It was a matter of ego, one so sensitive to a dancer. He knew her type well.

It was another game, one of endurance, more psychological than physical. Who would crack first? Who would be the first to put their foot down? Him or her?

It wouldn't be her. It wouldn't be her.

Hermione looked at her reflection in the mirror. It was glistening. She was pouring sweat. Her body had released so much water throughout the years that she did not even feel it anymore. But this sweat was different. It was charged with something foreign, something other than water. She felt it on her skin.

His proximity was intimidating, particularly because it was so un-professorial. He was performing arabesques, for goodness' sake. There shouldn't _be_ anything intimidating about it. If someone had come into the room, they might have thought they were two students.

No. That wasn't true.

Riddle had a quality. A quality that informed you right away that he had never been, nor would he ever be, at the bottom of the food chain.

She let out a bit more air through her teeth, almost as if she were smoking. Her leg would cramp soon. Her ankle was already shaking.

And then, Riddle set his foot down. Not because he had grown tired, but because he wanted to.

She tried not to sigh with relief as she lowered her leg.

Ten seconds later, his leg was up again. Hermione cursed under her breath and followed suit.

"Gentle now. Gentle," he instructed as he rotated his sole, keeping his trunk perfectly still.

"Yes, Sir."

"What is the origin of the word?" he asked out of the blue, not moving a single muscle.

Hermione tried to focus on keeping her own body still. "It - it derives from French, it's meant to be a pattern…a motif…an ornament. It's rooted in Islamic art."

He switched legs, and so did she.

"Is the motif real?"

Hermione licked her sweat-stained lips. "Real, Sir?"

"The pattern, the ornament. Is it _real_?"

"I don't understand, Sir."

Riddle smiled. "Does my body look realistic standing like this, Miss Granger?"

Hermione felt saliva build up in her throat. She tried not to swallow.

"No, Sir. But no position in ballet looks _realistic_."

"You mean to tell me that the swans in Swan Lake do not move like swans?"

Hermione blushed, feeling that the conversation was slipping through her fingers. "Well…that depends on the choreographer's vision."

"So. You believe a choreographer might tell the swans to dance like bears."

"No! I only meant –"

"I know what you meant. Try again," he spoke lightly and switched feet. She followed suit.

"I suppose," she said, feeling a headache coming on, "that some movements in ballet do imitate life. Or they try to give an impression of it. Other movements do not."

"Does arabesque imitate life?"

Hermione bit her lip. "No."

"And we come full circle. Is arabesque real?"

"No," she repeated, feeling a great fog descending on her mind.

"That's right. Look in the mirror, Miss Granger. Our bodies stand like ornaments. Outlandish and sinuous. We are part of a décor. Nothing more, nothing less."

Hermione stared at her tendons and ligaments and the way they seemed to draw perfect geometrical lines in the air. It was abstract movement. Her favourite kind. She almost smiled.

"Nothing more, nothing less," he repeated. "That is what I want to see, Miss Granger. Do you catch my meaning?"

Her smile faltered. "I – I think I do."

He suddenly stopped and walked behind her.

Hermione meant to put her foot down too, but he raised a hand. " _Penchés_ ".

She stifled a groan as she lowered her trunk and raised her leg higher. The pain. There it was again. She did not seek pain. Pain seemed to find her. Riddle was the one who liked pain. _Not_ her.

Suddenly, he was kneeling in front of her, in the stance of a partner. His hands shot up and gripped her waist. Just like in a pas de deux. He was supporting her weight.

Hermione was flooded with relief. While his grip did not lessen her pain, it made it more bearable.

"Nothing more, nothing less," he repeated, staring at her expectantly. She could see the thin lines at the corner of his eyes and the way his nostrils flared with each breath.

"Yes, Sir."

"You keep agreeing, but I see no improvement."

Her leg trembled in the air. "I…"

His hands put pressure on her waist. His grip was hard, almost cutting off her breath.

"You are only an ornament. Show me ornament."

Hermione inhaled sharply and tried again, leaning her torso even farther into his arms.

"You are a pattern. You are sinuous. You are malleable. You are what I say you are."

His grip cut off her circulation. Her chest heaved with the effort to draw breath. "Sir -"

"Arabesque means you are drawn by foreign hands. You do not belong to yourself."

She felt tears smarting at the corner of her eyes.

" _Be_ the pattern. _Be_ the décor. _Be what I say_. "

She swallowed a silent sob. She remembered the boys barging in on her practice that morning, their careless looks, their humorous whispers. She was only an inefficient body to them. She felt angry and vindicated, at the same time.

When she met Riddle's eyes, he seemed pleased.

"Better."

He removed his hands. She stumbled and lowered her leg, as oxygen moved freely to her lungs.

"But not good enough," he ratified.

She wondered if there would be bruises on her waist, where no one could see.

"We will continue next week."

She thought about pain again. She wanted to shout at him, tell him he was wrong. But he had picked up his bag and he was gone.

* * *

"You know, he seems all right in class," Parvati muttered, running a brush through her hair.

Hermione scoffed, but said nothing in reply. Parvati was talking about Professor Riddle's class. He taught a general course too, just like the other professors. And he seemed to have charmed most of his students there, especially the girls.

"I mean, I can see he's a twisted wanker. We were all there when he interrupted Professor Sinistra," Ginny conceded from her bed, "but he's not worse than McGonagall."

Hermione knew why the girls felt this way. Riddle was a different professor in the general course. He was almost _normal_. He was demanding, but not too severe and certainly not the eccentric man that she had met during her mentor hours. She hadn't told them the extent of his savagery, afraid that he would find out and punish her. But she had painted a picture. The girls were sympathetic to her plight, but they also thought she might be too sensitive for her own good. It didn't help that Riddle paid her next to no mind in class. He worked with Ginny and Pansy and Hannah and Parvati but stealthily ignored her and her progress. Hermione was grateful not to be the centre of his attention for once, but she was also irked that her complaints seemed all the more unfounded.

"Next week they're announcing the ballet we're doing for the Christmas festivities," Hannah told them from her seat at the window.

Pansy, who was the local gossip and flirt extraordinaire, told them smugly, "Professor Slughorn informed me personally that we're going to start mixed classes soon. So we're bound to start practicing a whole dance."

"Oh, heavens," Ginny exhaled with a laugh. "You mean I'll have to see Percy's face on a regular basis?"

"Speak for yourself," Pansy scoffed. "I've got my eyes on that gorgeous blond, Malfoy. Have you seen those calves? Although, Potter's not too shabby either."

"Hmmm, that Dean Thomas fellow is also easy on the eyes," Hannah commented wistfully.

"Which one do _you_ like, Granger?" Pansy asked with a raised eyebrow. "Neville Longbottom?"

Ginny threw her a look. "Neville is very nice, I'll have you know."

"Nice does not equal hot," Pansy argued.

Hermione folded her arms and stared at her bed sheets. "Honestly, none of them seem very appealing to me. They've all got egos the size of a country, I'm sure."

Parvati and Pansy both rolled their eyes. "Right, like we believe you haven't eyed them."

Hermione frowned. "I have _seen_ them, it's impossible not to, when they go about like they own the place."

"Oh, get that stick out of your arse. You're going to have to dance with one of them and let's see you not blush when that happens," Pansy commented with a smirk.

Hermione hated that she _did_ feel her cheeks warm up. She was always flustered by such topics, much to her chagrin. It was mostly her lack of experience which made her feel outnumbered in the conversation.

But she raised her chin defiantly and pretended indifference. "I think I'll be more than fine, but thank you for your concern for my _arse_ and its various contents."

Hannah and Ginny both burst into laughter and Parvati nearly dropped her brush.

Hermione smiled victoriously. But the victory did not last.

"I think I know why you don't like the boys. Little Miss Perfect wants a _man_. You fancy Riddle, don't you?" Pansy queried slyly.

Hermione choked on her own saliva. "Are you _actually_ serious? He torments me weekly."

"You keep saying that, but maybe it's a ruse. Maybe you two are having passionate sex during mentor hours and you're keeping us in the dark."

Hermione threw her pillow at Pansy. "That's disgusting! You're disgusting! He's my professor, not some kind of lothario! He would never - and I would never -!"

"Ah, you're probably right. Riddle _must_ be taken. No man like him is single. And if he were, you wouldn't be his first stop, no offense, Hermione," Pansy commented airily.

"None taken," she replied acidly. "Now can we _please_ stop talking about this?"

But now that the subject of sex had been breached, it was here to stay. Suddenly, everyone was sharing.

"Who was your first? What was he like? Ooh, did he go down on you? Of course he didn't."

Hermione had already suspected she was the only virgin of the group, but to have that fact confirmed in great detail was hardly pleasant.

She picked up a book, trying to signal that she did not want to talk about it, but of course, the girls prodded her with questions. Ginny, who was her closest friend, knew that Hermione hadn't done much in the way of intercourse, but she was still curious about her romantic past, which Hermione usually kept under lock and key.

"So, come on, spill. First base. And with whom," Parvati prompted eagerly.

Hermione bit her lip. She'd only ever had one boyfriend and his name was Viktor Krum. He had been an exchange student at her dance school back home. She had been assigned to show him around and teach him the ropes. He had thanked her by making out with her in the dressing room. It had been _magical_ at the time, because she was fifteen and she thought Viktor was quixotic and interesting. He turned out to be perfectly nice…and perfectly boring. He couldn't even pronounce her name, no matter how many times she showed him how. But that kiss, though wet and messy, had been special.

"Um, yes. His name was Viktor."

Ginny raised an eyebrow. "From our old school?"

Hermione blushed. "Well, you asked!"

Ginny had been a late transfer to Hermione's school and she hadn't caught Viktor, but she'd heard about the beefy, thick-witted dancer who had dropped out before the term's end because he couldn't adjust.

"Oh my God, why did you never tell me?"

Hermione shrugged, embarrassed. "We weren't friends back then. And then, when we were, there was no point in telling you. He was long gone."

"Did you get to second base with Viktor?" Hannah asked, after Hermione had been forced to describe him at length.

"Uh, no."

"Not even a little petting?"

"No," she insisted, trying to look anywhere but at the pairs of curious eyes. Hermione wasn't about to tell them she had been coping with anorexia at the time, and had not wanted to let Viktor touch her coltish body.

"Okay, so I suppose third base is out of the question," Parvati surmised. "What about other boys?"

Hermione drew up her quilt. "I'm tired. How about we continue this riveting chat tomorrow?"

"Wait, there were _no_ other boys?" Pansy echoed shrilly. "You only ever snogged that clod?"

Hermione huffed. "If by that you mean I spared my mouth some awful pathogens, then yes."

"Oh, how tragic."

"Shut up, Pansy!" Ginny muttered, hitting the girl in the shoulder. "There's nothing wrong with kissing only one guy. Besides, Hermione's got plenty of opportunities to raise that number this year."

"Wouldn't bank on it," Pansy muttered under her breath, which earned her another jab from Ginny.

Hannah patted Hermione on the arm. "It's okay, Hermione. Just make sure you don't snog Dean Thomas. And that goes for all of you. He's mine."

"I think I might try to snag Potter," Parvati said with a yawn. "We'll see. We're here to dance, not copulate."

"The two go very well together, though," Pansy commented with a smirk.

"Oh, put a sock in it," Ginny snapped. "She's right. We ought to be professionals."

Hermione was grateful for the end of _that_ discussion. Although, she had an inkling it wouldn't be the last. And really, she was fine with boy talk, as long as it did not involve her personal experience.

Sometimes she wondered if she was being hypocritical. She pretended to be above everything, like dance and music were the only things that mattered, but deep down, she cared. Of course she cared. Boys had rejected her, so she had rejected boys. And she had built an identity on this rejection. Among other things.

Hermione heaved a sigh. She _hated_ when she got like this, when her disgusting vulnerabilities were exposed, like a wound whose scab had been torn. She was only twenty. If she worked hard, she had a good ten or fifteen years of professional ballet in front of her. After the age of thirty-five, when ballerinas were relegated to playing second fiddle, she would retire into teaching. That was the plan, and that was what she was going to do.

Other things were secondary.

Such as _pain_.

Riddle was wrong. Pain was only a periphery to her. She did not mean to dwell there.

* * *

 _Thank you for your reviews! I really hope you liked the third chapter and that you're still invested. Also many thanks to the anonymous reviewers and to Annie (I am now nervous to have an actual dancer read this story, because you can tell I'm getting a lot of stuff wrong, but oh well, I hope you'll overlook some of the technical details, and thank you!) _


End file.
